On Thursday, I signed up for a new experience. I was promised it would open my eyes to a new world. I was promised I would feel like a new woman at the end of it all. I was promised that I would keep going back for more once I got the hang of it.
I was had.
Ever done Bikram's yoga?
Imagine going into a room like a sauna and then doing 26 yoga poses twice over for 90 minutes.
Now, I hate saunas. I know most people like them, but I get in, take one breath of hot steamy air and start to panic and feel claustrophobic. I spend the next 10 minutes making sure I can still see the door (escape route) and trying to breathe deeply (stop making more steam you idiots).
Bikram's is like being in a giant sauna room (
thankfully minus the steam). The room does, however, have about twenty space heaters running at max capacity. This alone made me think "fire hazard" (and secondly wonder about their electricity bill).
When I forked over my 25 (oh-my-god-how-many?) dollars to do the class, the instructor told me to go at my own pace during the class. She obviously didn't mean this when partway through pose one she started barking at me about my form, or lack thereof. This trend continued throughout the class -- me, wobbly and shaky, bent like a pretzel and holding my heels wrapped the wrong way while
grunting like a pig in heat breathing through the poses; her, reiterating, "Maahndii, stand on your thumbs too. Maahndii, forehead all the way to your knees. Maahndii, look like a T, not a bent hanger. Maahndii, I'm talking to
you."
By the time the class ended, I was a whimpering puddle of sweat crawling on all fours towards the door.
So who took me on this adventure? My neighbour from across the street and her evil friend. And here I'd been thinking a threesome would hold much more promise.
We're going back again on Tuesday.
